The short, stout, hunched over pediatrician my parents had found in the Mexico City phone book and called in desperation to tend to my little sister pointed to a portrait over my parents’ bed as he blinked his eyes.

It was late Fall of 1966. My father, Gilbert Huesca, was startled by this question. He was more concerned about my seven-year-old sister’s illness than about answering questions from a curious man looking at pictures on a wall.

The doctor snapped out of his fog. “Her tonsils and adenoids appear to be inflamed. How long has she had trouble breathing like this?”

My mother told him that my sister had been sick on and off for a couple of months. At first it had seemed she was just getting recurrent colds, but when she lost her appetite and began losing weight, it was clear something else was happening.

The doctor explained that enlarged tonsils and adenoids could cause such symptoms, well as her labored breathing. Why they were enlarged was yet to be determined, but to start with he prescribed a course of antibiotics in case it was a bacterial infection. If the antibiotics did not work, my sister might need surgery to have her adenoids removed. In any case, he would see her again in a few days. My two other little sisters and I, watching from the door, grimaced. “Why do they have to add a noise to her?” My baby sister asked in a stage whisper. “No, silly,” I corrected her. “They’re called adenoids. And if they don’t get better, then the doctor has has to take ’em out.” My second sister, always quick to get to the heart of the problem, asked, “So that means they’re bad. Does he have to take ’em out of us, too?” I knew as little as she did. We leaned in closer to get a clue.

My parents, somewhat relieved, thanked the doctor for coming. “How much do we owe you?” my father asked.

Dr. Franco seemed not to hear the question but looked back up at the picture. “I’m sorry, but I have to know, sir. Do you know that man?”

My father, still puzzled by the doctor’s distraction, answered. “He was my father.”

Recalling this encounter many years later, my father remarked, “He felt as though he found something special, something that belonged to him.”

It turned out that some forty or so years before, José Felipe Franco had been a struggling young doctor in Orizaba, Veracruz, when he met my grandfather, José Gil Alberto “Cayetano” Huesca. At the time, my grandfather worked as a mechanic for the Mexican Railway, Ferrocarriles Mexicanos. When he found out that the young José often skipped meals to make up for the costs of his fledgling medical practice, my grandfather was shocked. He invited his new acquaintance to daily meals as if he were one of the family, helped him with business expenses, and recommended him to relatives and friends.

Over time, Doctor Franco became successful. He eventually moved to the capital, where he founded a children’s hospital, the Clínica Infantil Doctor Franco, on San Cosme Avenue, in the San Rafael neighborhood, or colonia. He never forgot his humble beginnings and set aside one day a week to care for the poor and indigent, free of charge.

Of all the ways to meet an old family friend, so many miles and so many years later, this was quite remarkable. Though Dr. Franco was saddened to know my grandfather had died in 1937, he was glad to learn my grandmother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca now lived in Mexico City. He visited her soon afterward and also reconnected with some of my aunts and uncles.

The friendship he had shared with my grandfather years before took on a new life with my father’s generation of the Huesca family. I think my father saw a bit of his own father in this grandfatherly gentleman.

Dr. Franco welcomed the relationship. He became quite close to my father and mother and some of my uncles. They looked out for each other and each other’s families over the years, each at his happiest when he could do something for the other. For the second time in his life, he became a part of our Huesca family. But this time, his story also became part of our family story. It also led to one of my father’s favorite sayings: Whatever you do in this life will always come back to you.

Dr. Franco continued to treat my sister at his hospital. He was of the opinion that her enlarged adenoids had been caused by the Federal District’s high altitude – 7,000 feet above sea level. He told my mother and father that he saw two options. One would be to undergo surgery to remove the adenoids. The other option would be to move out of Mexico City to another area that was closer to sea level. This second option, he theorized, might allow her system to regularize itself.

After some consideration of the pros and cons of an adenoidectomy, my parents concluded that moving out of the area might be a safer and more beneficial alternative for my sister in the long run. Having solved that dilemma, they now had to tackle a new one.

4 Thoughts to “Motivation Monday: Whatever You Do in this Life Will Come Back to You”

Linda, what a precious story! It is amazing to see how the things we choose to do will come back to us. How touching to hear how the doctor and your family did get the chance to reconnect. Hopefully, you will once again get the chance to reconnect as others respond to your request for more stories. Reminds me of advice from a biblical proverb: "Thine own friend, and thy father's friend, forsake not…"

It's true, Jacqi. We just never know how a word or an action may affect someone else. It also brings back that whole theme of six degrees of separation. If not for my grandfather, we might not have met Dr. Franco and eventually ended up living where we are now. I might not have married my wonderful husband and had our children, etc…And so it goes…hmmm…I think another blog post is coming into view…